


Dog House

by vegetalass



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: gender neutral reader, this is such a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetalass/pseuds/vegetalass
Summary: You begin to hobble away, resting a hand on the cool wall next you while you stupidly turn your back on a man who you are well aware is not kind. A man who has lost more than most people could imagine. But you don’t worry, you don’t even have the energy to, and decide that if he kills you, it would probably be a good thing.Besides, you’ve only really spoken a few times, and you know that you have both lost the same thing.He’s just the one who did all the killing.





	1. Beautiful Day

**Author's Note:**

> IVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FIC FOR A MONTH AND IM SICK OF IT!

_It is a beautiful day. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, and as the waves crash against each other in front of you, it seems as though the world is stuck in time with your breathing._

_It is warm, and things are good as you think about what you should name the tiny gray sand crabs that rest in the small green bucket by your feet. You watch someone in the distance lift their hands and wave at you, smiling from afar, the sunshine a blanket that blocks their eyes from meeting yours, and you push yourself to remember what color they are._

_Though it is warm, and you are resting, suddenly, the world spins and you are no longer at the beach but on a cold floor, and the sky is not blue but deep red. Although they were just waving, you can hear the shots, taste the blood and then see as the light goes out behind the eyes of the only person who you so desperately love._

_The image of raised arms blur as they reach out to you in one final stretch, and though you can’t remember their last words, and you’re sure that you don’t want to, you know that they have asked you to take care of the only thing they have left besides you._

_A dog._

_A dog who is loved and warm and probably asleep, safe at home in wait of a person who is not you and never will be, as you are busy holding a dead body and screaming as you watch a man dressed in black walk away and never come back..._

_And you are... Oh, God._

_You are..._

_You..._

i.

You are at the dog park, and the sun is bright, and the sky is blue. 

You open your eyes suddenly, hands clenched into fists, with your heart hammering wildly against the bones in your chest. Your pupils dilate and then burn, the sun seeming so bright against the backdrop of the green grass and dogs in your vision who bound about through the open park as though there is not a care to be had in the world. 

Maybe there’s not, and God, you wish there wasn’t, but you’re not a dog and you don’t like the park. You have long since learned better than to live in some pretend world where you can spend weekends at the beach with all the people you love, because at this moment in time, they are all dead.

Except your dog, that is, and he’s not even really your dog. But you love him, so you save the complaining for in your head and just tell people that he was a gift rather than an _inheritance_ after his original owner died. 

You try not to focus on the past often, but it’s hard, especially now that you’re alone. It’s not like you crave love or anything like that, really, because you understand that all things come and go. It’s just that your idea of the future has always seemed to rest on the balance between finding peace and hope, and you have been ashamed to say that as of late, you are not someone who can be considered either peaceful or hopeful. 

Not since you watched love die by the hands of a Heckler & Koch P30L. 

Baba Yaga, you remember. The title always used to seem so silly. 

_Whatever,_ you think, hands still clenched, eyes still aching, _Those days are over now, and I’m at the park._

Even if you can remember every single shot and the moans that came from the dying body you held in your arms after a raid that you were barely lucky enough to escape from alive. You almost wish that you-

“Hello?” 

Someone says and you jolt, the deep voice piercing the bubble of concentration you were lost in. You raise a hand to your heart in shock, as you gaze wide-eyed at a man who stands in front of you looking hesitant and apologetic for something that’s completely unbeknownst to you. 

You didn’t even notice when he started standing next to you, his tall frame shading you from the sun as you try to look around him, confused. 

“Yes?” 

“I just wanted to stop and say I’m sorry,” he voices immediately, sounding weirdly concerned about something you gather you’re supposed to know about but don’t. 

So you freeze, almost completely sure that you look like an idiot as you stare at this stranger with your lips turned down in what’s probably an awkward frown. 

“What are you talking about, sir?” 

“I...” He blinks at you, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, before his face softens and his dark eyes look down to avoid your worried gaze, “Sorry. Forget about it.”

You blink, still surprised that someone is initiating contact with you at all, before you nod at him slowly. 

“Okay,” You hesitate, unsure of what to call him, and what he could’ve meant by his words. He doesn’t seem like anyone you could’ve met before, but you still can’t shake the odd feeling that you have when his eyes bore into yours, “You are...?” 

“John.” He replies slowly, almost in a sad way, and you smile back at him absentmindedly, trying to forget the embarrassing miscommunication that just occured as he reaches out to shake your hand. 

Again, there is that familiarity to him, an uncanny edge to his presence that makes you feel like deep down, you’re supposed to recognize who he is. 

However, you don’t bother wasting any more time with fitting the key into the lock of figuring out who he is, because you find everyone to be slightly familiar now, most faces blurring once you decide whether or not it’s worth it to keep looking at them. 

Deep inside, you know it will never be the same. 

Nobody is the same.

Besides, by now your concentration has slipped again, as you are distracted by a dog in front of you who is wagging its tail, its little gray face smiling at you as though you are some kind of angel in heaven. 

Which you’re not, but the dog wouldn’t know that. 

“Is he yours?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun as you reach out to pat his head, once, twice, and then over his ears. The dog’s eyes squint in a deeper smile, so focused and intense that you almost don’t notice the way that John is glancing at you. 

“Yes,” he says, relieving some of the tension between your awkward silence, “Do you have one?” 

You turn to him, gazing at his profile, before you point, eyes glazing over the crowd as though you can’t remember who you’re looking for. 

“I’m watching him for a friend,” you say, distracted by the happy wag of your dog’s tail in distant sunshine as you glance back at John as he nods. 

You think of the beach, the sand crabs, and then of the guns that robbed you of that day and all others that could've been like it, and how much a dog enjoys playing in water. 

You go silent again. 

“...Name?” Johns voice startles you once more, just like when he first spoke, still deep and powerful, and you have to stop yourself from flying off your chair for a second time. 

“What?” you turn your head toward him, blinking like a stupid, sitting duck. You never used to get distracted by boys. 

“I said, do they have a name?” he smiles, hesitantly, almost kindly, even though you can tell that he knows that there is something deeply wrong with you that you are never going to explain. Not to someone normal. 

Not to him. 

“Oh,” you laugh, feeling breathless and slightly embarrassed, trying to play off the fact that you’ve already lost yourself again in that far-off world where you’re still on the beach, and still with the people you love. Even if it feels like a different earth entirely now that it’s gone, the sunshine at the park keeps reminding you of that day. 

You thought you knew better than to play pretend, and you’re unsure of what to say, realizing very quickly that you don’t have a name for the animal, at least, not a new one, and you blink, nose scrunching, before trying to reply in a way that won’t make you cry, “I actually, uh… don’t.”

It’s not funny, but you laugh nonetheless, and as he raises an eyebrow at you in confusion, you do your best to smile, at least so he doesn’t question why. 

“That’s strange,” he says, in the midst of your childlike giggle, sounding more confused than upset, “My dog doesn’t have one either.” 

Though you fall into silence again, being stunned by his response, it’s only after you take another five, okay, maybe ten peeks at him at your side, do you find that you are no longer thinking of the beach, or of the blood that is stained on your hands, but on the fact that John seems to be glancing at you, too, and you don’t have to guess why. 

He seems nice...

Kind of. 


	2. Fever Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter i struggled the most with. i really couldnt figure out how to end it and still feel as though all my words are jumbled, so please forgive it for being super messy.

_You dream of a man dressed in black, but you never see his face._

_You are sad, and wake up with wet cheeks, but when you finally open your eyes, it seems as though the clouds did all the crying for you as it rains sheets outside your window._

ii.

You are going to die. 

You are going to die, and the last thing you can think about is the man in your dreams, the dark suit he was wearing, and the gun in his hands, a Heckler & Koch.

You can’t say that you know what love is anymore, though part of you wants to say that one day, you could. 

However, you’re still not really that hopeful for the future, and it’s been too long since your last… romantic adventure... that you don’t really think that dreaming of some kind of evil monster in a nice outfit really constitutes as being romantic, and hits the bullseye more for being creepy, instead, especially since you _are_ about to die.

Besides, you’ve been thinking about John-From-the-Dog-Park (as you’ve taken to calling him) a lot more than you should’ve been lately, and it’s probably weird to be grouping the two of them together whenever you think about what it would be like to start dating again. 

Deep down, you know that being in love would be too hard, as you’re busy taking care of a dog you did not want and still wake up screaming every night because of the way your last relationship ended. But there’s another factor that hangs heavy over your head, and it’s because you have since restarted the process of accepting dangerous jobs you know you’d might not complete again, all for some dumb gold coins. 

And this is the part that’s not a dream, even though it all feels so similar. 

Though you can’t say that you were expecting this outcome to be your end, it doesn’t really surprise you that you’re going to die distracted and lost on the floor of some restaurant bathroom you have never been to before. 

You hadn’t wanted to start working again. In fact, even the thought of seeing that damn leaderboard one more time made you shake, but you couldn’t stop yourself from charging up your old phone and digging up your gun from under a pile of years-old blankets after at some point deciding that there was no other way to move on from your past except than to die because of it. 

And now, there’s nothing you can do to change your decision except to wait for the end and hope that your neighbors take care of your dog when they realize you didn’t make it back home.

They always said that life is fragile. That you had things to live for, goals to set. And in a way, they were right. You have a dog, and a long road to recovery, but if you were to make it, even if not very far, you had at least one more conversation with John-From-the-Dog-Park to make. 

But you cannot ignore the gun in your hand, and the way your sweaty fingers burn with fever as you hold it against your chest. It’s almost as if the entire space around you is some kind of fever dream as you barely slid into the bathroom fast enough to hear the final shots being unloaded into your former coworker’s head just outside its door. 

You are going to die, and it’s because John Wick is here, and everyone else who was hired with you to take him down is dead. 

You swore to yourself that you’d stop taking jobs. You’d promised. But it’s hard to keep a promise when there’s no one to keep it for, and when you thought you’d gotten good enough at running away and then being presumed dead that you could always make it out of these situations alive. Not that Winston didn’t give you a monstrous earful when he heard your voice for the first time in years after you called to ask who is standing chairman, but… he believed you were dead, at least. 

You had wanted to apologize for running away, but in the end, he was right. If John Wick can’t escape, then neither can you.

And that’s why you’re going to die: because John Wick is here, and you can hear his footsteps approaching the locked bathroom door from which you are hiding behind, and the only thing you can think to do is long for things that are just quite out of reach. 

Peace, for one. Love, another. 

In their absence, you forgot what it felt like to be scared. To be sad. To realize the fact that your dog would be alone once more in a world where you never get to see the beach again. 

But beaches don’t usually have guns, and the one in your hands reminds you that it’s waiting to be used just as the bathroom door creaks open despite the prayer you made when hoping that it wouldn’t. 

Even though you know that you should probably be praying, you can’t help but think of the man in your dreams instead; the ghost, his gun, and then the color of someone’s eyes. You can barely remember who they belong to before you’re finally able to squeeze the gun in front of your face as though closing your eyes might be a shield that saves you from dying. 

From John Wick.

You think about John-From-the-Dog-Park, and it’s only when the footsteps stop and the room rings in silence as you look up and see him that your brave facade falters and you realize the truth. 

“John!” You half sigh, half scream when you finally manage to pry open your eyes all the way to take in the sight of the familiar man dressed in black peering down at you as if he were some kind of half-wit assassin. 

You can’t tell if he’s shocked to see you, as by the time he is opening his mouth to respond you have already climbed from your slippery spot underneath the sink and left your gun behind to dive straight into his arms and heave. 

Bloodstained and sweaty, as your fingers wrap around his waist and you sob into his chest, it’s only when he rests his hands on your shoulders that you realize how you distraught you were at the thought of dying. Part of you wonders if maybe the reason you’re crying is because you’re relieved that now, you don’t have to. 

“What are you doing here?” John asks, distressed, sounding like an angrier version of the person who always startles you at the park. 

It would be scary, except that you do not care if he’s upset and ignore the question. Ignore the fact that John, your John (at least, the one from the dog park) is _the_ John Wick and was this close to killing you.

You knew he looked familiar. 

“I said-” 

You shush him, finally allowing yourself to release him from your grasp, using your dirty hands to smear grime across your face as you try to clear your eyes and nose of snot, tears, and blood so that you can look him in the eyes. You don’t know where he put his gun.

“I thought you were just some random guy with a dog,” you laugh, the same way you do when you’re trying not to seem bothered, which is uncharacteristic for someone who was about an inch away from dying. 

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he responds, unmoving. 

When you try to continue to smile, it falters instantly when John’s face doesn’t change to mirror yours and his lips do not crook upwards even the slightest bit. If you were happy to see him, he looks almost enraged at seeing you, and you can only whisper in return. 

“I’ve been meaning to quit,” you shrink backwards, your hands now at your sides, as you realize you hadn’t managed to think far enough ahead to wonder what you would do if you didn’t die. 

Which you didn’t. 

“I think… I should go home now,” you decide out loud, feeling as though the way he is staring at you in silence implies that there is still a chance he might kill you, but you continue to look in his eyes nonetheless, “But it was really nice to see you.” 

You begin to hobble away, resting a hand on the cool wall next you while you stupidly turn your back on a man who you are well aware is not kind. A man who has lost more than most people could imagine. But you don’t worry, you don’t even have the energy to, and decide that if he kills you, it would probably be a good thing. 

Besides, you’ve only really spoken a few times, and you know that you have both lost the same thing. 

He’s just the one who did all the killing. 

You stop walking. 

“John?” You ask suddenly, not looking back, the empty air responding in the only way you need, “When you apologized to me, did you mean it?” 

You can envision face, the way his lips are always in half a frown. You can see his hair, it being just that little bit too long. And you can remember his eyes, and how they look at you as though you are someone he thinks will never be normal, because they always look the same as when you were holding that damn dead body. 

You didn’t even recognize him. It was a miscommunication. You were someone else. 

But you know now. The dark suit, the Heckler & Koch, and the way he didn’t kill you. _Again._

You look at him, and you realize the reason why he was saying _sorry_ was because he had killed somebody who you had loved, and that he had known the entire time. 

The realization makes the world spin, and what little light is shining in the bathroom begins to make you feel sick. Your eyes blur as you begin to cry again, your hands now too limp to wipe your face of the tears and your body too tired to keep you standing upright while you process the new information. 

“John,” you gasp, just as you begin to collapse, reaching out for him in the hopes that you don’t end up on the ground. 

While you do realize that there’s a lot you should probably start being angry at him for, such as how he robbed you of the one thing you’ve been holding onto for years, the only thought you can seem to process is how warm his body is when he does manage to take your hands in his and pull you to his chest before it’s too late. 

Nestled in arms, it doesn’t take much of an effort to close your eyes and pretend that he is someone else, and that this whole night never happened. 

John’s voice is low, his lips close to your ear when he finally speaks, killing your fantasy almost instantly, “You didn’t recognize me, did you?” 

You continue to weep, shaking your head no while you cling to his body. There are words you wish you could say to him; angry, nasty words. Yet, for some reason, nothing comes out when he finally takes your face in his hands to look into your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, before you can manage to speak, one hand back to holding yours, the other pressed into your hair. You’d feel guilty about this, as though you were the one pressuring him into responding this way, _holding_ you like this, but you can’t bring yourself to move, and are so angry that you hope it hurts him to touch you like this, too. 

You remember the beach, and how easily the sky can change from blue to red, and you suddenly think of the man in your dreams, the one in the suit, and decide that he sort of looked like John. At first, it makes you feel worse, and part of you boils with rage while you try to come to terms with the understanding of what he’s done to you. But there’s another part of you, one that you’re not sure whether to be grateful for, that also reminds you of how in love you could’ve been with the man you met at the park; the one with the happy, gray dog, if you had just decided to move on. 

But it's not that simple, and these versions of people in your head just ended up being the same person. 

Your body aches, but you shudder in relief when you finally release John’s neck, trying to avoid looking into his eyes one more time by using your dirty fingers to wipe grime across your face. While you can’t say that you’ve forgiven John-From-the-Dog-Park for being John Wick, you still try to focus on the positives: that you are not dead, and you can finally go home to feed your dog in peace. 

But you should know better, as John breaks the silence first. John Wick, that is. 

“Do you need a ride home?” he asks, reaching out for your hand. Though you want to say no, you can’t help but nod, still unable to look him in the eyes in fear of blushing at the man who killed the last person you loved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for readign! 
> 
> from me, a person who only knows three words: "and, but, + again!"


	3. Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lord christ.

_Once again, it is a beautiful day. The sun is bright, and the sky is a beautiful blue. This time though, you are not at the beach, but at the dog park, and your dog is racing against the wind next to another dog you have seen before but do not know the name of._

_You try to call out, voice swallowed by something you can’t place, but you don’t really mind, because it’s warm out and you feel sleepy. You watch as your dog runs towards another, a friendly looking gray one, and realize that John must be close by._

_So you smile, feeling content with this dream version of your favorite killer and his dog in a world where he is not a killer and you can be together..._

_But something doesn’t feel right, and you..._

_You..._

iii.

You open your eyes to the sudden sound of knocking, before you realize it is too late to answer and the door to your house swings open in haste. 

It is John, except this time he is not dressed in black and he is not covered in blood, and he looks so funny in contrast to the person you always think about, even if you’ve seen him in his pair of sweats before. 

“Hi, John,” you smile, eyes closing again, chest stuttering slowly as you suck a breath through your teeth.

“Are you…” he pauses, seeming unsure about the sight that’s in front of him, “Have you been shot?” 

“Yeah,” You say, squeezing your eyes shut with your fingers pressed against your side. You know that you’re bleeding all over your ugly old couch, but for some reason you can’t bring yourself to mend the wound and save the cushions, as by this point, it’s probably too late to try. 

“How?” 

“You know…” you wave your hand around, blood trailing down your fingers, and you know that John is most likely thinking of the night when he decided not to shoot you and then of the next time he decided not to shoot you and instead let you sob in his arms, “Work.” 

“I thought you wanted to quit?” he asks, though it comes out more as an accusatory statement than anything else. You wish you had a better response, a better _excuse,_ but the only thing you can do is grunt, eyes closed, while you focus on trying not to bleed out. 

You can remember the leaderboard and the assigned mission, firing your gun, and then escaping, but your memory stops at the part where you managed to get caught and then torn open by someone else with a firing weapon.

It’s probably not important now, because John is still hurrying to your side, seeming concerned if not just polite, and then lets you reach out a hand for him in a way that seems a little bit familiar. 

“Hey, John?” you ask, not waiting for a response before you continue, “Do you ever think about how things could be different?”

He stays quiet, as you have noticed by now that he doesn’t usually respond to your comments, but when you open your eyes to peek at his face, he looks pensive rather than like someone trying to ignore you. He catches you staring, and his face twists in a way you cannot read. 

“Yes,” he says, at this point now kneeling by your side. 

You nod, your fingers wiping your sweaty face, and he reaches out with a cloth to wipe for you, as you’re sure there’s more blood than tears in your eyes now by the way his handkerchief stains red. 

You remember the beach, and how the slaughter that robbed everything from you also gave you a dog, which in turn gave you the dog park where you first met John. 

Life is a cycle, you think, and this is the part that’s always shown as an arrow instead of a picture. 

Dying. 

If this were a different life, and you were not an arrow, maybe John would look at you differently. Maybe you’d both have different jobs and he wouldn’t have to watch you bleed out on your couch as you slowly forget how you even got home. 

Maybe he wouldn't have taken up two spots in your mind.

But this is your life, and you are dying, and the last thing you can think about is him. 

“I’m going to call a doctor now,” he says, standing up, but you reach for him, grabbing his wrist with your bloody hand, smearing red across his arm. 

He blinks at you, puzzled, confused, and you’re sure that he’s wondering why you haven’t passed out yet. 

“Wait,” you whisper, blinking up at his face as he hesitates, “Tell me again what they call you?” 

John looks confused, but humors you anyway, even though it's not funny, “The Boogeyman?”

“No,” you whine, though it ends up sounding more like a groan, “The silly name.” 

“Baba Yaga?” 

You attempt to laugh, but heave instead when the gasp you let out causes your wound to burn and forces you to let go of John. As you press your hands against your side, he pulls himself away quickly and sighs when you still manage to pout at him. 

Though you recognize his behavior as kind, you still can’t help but think of what you did to deserve this; bleeding out and then being forgotten all over again. 

You can remember the first night he walked away, the night when you were screaming so loud you were sure the whole of New York City could hear you. The same night you watched love die, and you don't even know if John was married at the time. 

In your stupor, you wonder what his wife must’ve been like, and if you are anything like her. 

“You’ll be fine,” John whispers, but his voice still cuts your thoughts in half as you notice that he is staring at you, distracted by something of his own creation as his large hands move to pull an ugly pink blanket from underneath your feet to lay across your wounded body. 

You’re not sure if he’s right, but you nod anyway, despite the fact that by now, you can hear his footsteps heading towards the door, feel the fading of his warmth, and when you do manage to open your eyes in one final burst of anxiety, see as he has already turned his back toward you to open your front door to leave. This time, when you reach out for him, you are reminded of the first time you lost someone who you loved. 

“John,” you croak, and he stops to listen even though one of his feet is already out of the door, “We should go to the beach sometime.”

He nods, and you watch his lips to see if they twitch upward, even though in some ways, he looks as sad as when you first met him on that day when he tried to apologize. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, watching as he finally leaves, hoping that if he saw your smile, you had managed to swallow all the blood in your mouth. 

He hadn’t smiled back. 

* * *

_You are at the beach again, except that this time, you know that you are dreaming._

_Still, the sun is bright and the sky is blue, and the water looks extra beautiful with a happy gray dog that splashes in its waves next to one that looks like your own._

_You do not have a bucket of sand crabs at your feet, or someone close to you in the water, but you know that there is a man dressed in black somewhere nearby and that if you were to look for him, he would wave back at you._

_Even at the distant sound of sirens that go off, which seem louder with every passing second, you smile, opening your eyes to look for him, hoping that this time, he doesn’t have a gun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading if you managed to get this far! i really am proud of myself to pulling this off, EVEN THO ITS WACK AS HELL............. (ad probably written weird) haha.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hopefully its not too terrible <3


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